


All Cats are Black in the Dark

by lousy_science



Series: The Does What it Says on the Tin series [3]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 00:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: Yet more bunk smut.





	All Cats are Black in the Dark

The wee hours of the night, when man was meant to be sleeping, or if not sleeping, Farrier reckoned, in a warm club - he knew a few in Soho that would be jumping right now - drinking, dancing; fighting, even, something that livened the blood. Anything but awake, in a damp shed in Kent, lying under your coat because this base was just opened and there were no sheets or pillows, just a few mattresses on the bunk frames which still smelt of fresh wood. 

They had been diverted here after a storm had come in from the North West, landing on a new airstrip that sliced through some poor sod’s field. Maybe this had been an apple farm, he’d said to Collins as they landed, and we’ll be having someone’s home made cider with our supper. 

No cider, no apples, nothing but blackout curtains up and the sound of rain thudding on the corrugated iron and Collins, in the bed next to him, sobbing. 

It had been a low week. The Welsh lad, Rhodri Driscoll, had gone down on Monday. He’d been a good pilot, fearless but not reckless, and on the ground an easy-going chap with a booming laugh. He loved rugby, and would talk about it with Collins for hours, the two of them hunched over a paper showing the latest match results and arguing who was the better captain. Farrier would watch them, sometimes, Driscoll’s dark head of hair next to Collins, who’d be shaking his head no, no, you’re wrong, you daft Taffy. 

Collins hadn’t slept since Monday, not properly, and Farrier knew, because when Collins couldn’t sleep, neither could he. It was bad enough at home base, but here, under an unfamiliar roof and colder than a witch’s tit, it was worse. He’d never heard Collins cry before.

“Eh, Collins,” he whispered at last. 

Collins snuffled, then his breathing evened out, like he could escape attention if he kept quiet now. Farrier wasn’t having it. 

“Get over here.”

There was no point in motioning over, it was so dark he couldn’t see his hand infront of his face, but he could hear well enough. Less than a yard away from him the bedframe creaked slightly, the mattress springs moving under the weight as Collins sat up, feet on the concrete floor. Reaching an arm out Farrier caught hold of an outstretched hand by the wrist, and yanked him forward. 

“Watch your head,” he warned, and another hand fumbled over his chest as Collins scooted over. Farrier rolled himself to the side to make as much space as he could in the hollow of heat where his back had laid. 

All limbs, Collins folded himself in, lying on his side, his breath hot on Farrier’s face. Not close enough. Farrier pulled him in, tucking the two of them together, hip to hip, Collins upper leg lacing itself between his. 

Moving a hand to Collins’s face, Farrier felt wetness which he tried to thumb away. He hummed, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. Clasping a pair of cold hands between his own, he rubbed a little warmth into them. 

“Like ice, you are,” Farrier murmured, and Collins sniffed, his head tilting back and forth, as if he was still shaking his head in denial to Driscoll. Farrier took his hands and shuffled to tuck them under his own armpits, and Collins curled his fingers around his ribcage. The tip of his nose grazed Farrier’s chin, cold and wet, and Farrier bent to dot a kiss on it. He thought of his dog back home, Raffles, and how he whimpered during thunderstorms. 

Pulling his coat over Collins the best he could, pushing the sheepskin around his neck, he kept kneading slow circles over Collins’s back, under his shirt. He was shaking, a tiny bit, but breathing more normally now. Lying his face over Collins’s cheek, there were no more tears between them. 

Neither of them were probably getting any sleep, the night had drawn out too far for that, and Collins was still tight with tension, but at least he was warmer under Farrier’s hands. 

Warmer, and livelier. After a few minutes pulled close to Farrier’s chest, chest rising against his, Collins ducked his head down and pressed his lips to his collarbone. Then he began to move up, hot kisses on his neck, rubbing against the stubble of his jaw, to his cheek, and Farrier couldn’t help it, he turned the half-inch to make their lips meet. 

He tried to keep it slow, the body in his arms twisting with new energy, a tongue pushing urgently between his teeth and Farrier let him in - let himself swallow Collins’s moans, felt the throb of his heartbeat against his chest, the firm thigh sawing relentlessly against his groin. 

Whatever Collins was murmuring, it was nothing he could say out loud, not in this place, so Farrier let him speak it in half-breaths, harsh with gasps, in the way he bit at Farrier’s lips then licked at them to soothe, in the throaty moans and thrash of his limbs. 

Slipping his hands from Collins’s back to his hips, he worked under the band of his uniform trousers, to the cotton underwear, the fabric too new to be soft. Collins somehow always scored the newest kit first, and kept his uniform in the best shape. Another atom of misery for that evening, having to sleep in his gear and get it wrinkled. 

Farrier could at least distract him from thoughts of ironing. He found Collins iron hard, the tight skin hot in his grip, and when he pressed a thumb firmly to the vein on the underside, Collins’s whole body jerked. 

“ _ _Ah!”__ It was a small, bitten-off cry, but Farrier could feel the head next to him bumping against the frame. “Shhh”, he muttered, rubbing their noses together. 

Farrier still had one hand on Collins’s hip, and as he used the other to slowly pulse up and down, he clutched at the firm muscles of his arse, thinking to keep Collins still, but making him rear up into Farrier’s grip. His mouth had fallen open, and Farrier could hear the exertion in his breath, feel it in the wiry tightness of his body. Dipping his fingers down into his cleft, he stroked the tender skin there. 

Collins went pink with too much heat, Farrier knew, and he imagined the roses that would be blooming across his face and chest now. Moving his smoothly back and forth over his hole, he felt the taut muscle springy against his fingertips as he pressed against it. 

Thrusting into the sweat-slick tunnel of his hand, Collins hips stuttered, held tight in Farrier’s grasp. He urged Collins’s head down under his chin, pressing kisses along his ear as he pushed the tip of his finger in. Farrier felt the muscle clench and give, as teeth bit down on his shoulder, the body he was inside of bending in a long curve. 

Farrier felt the hot spurt of seed leaking between his fingers as Collins came in a final, shuddering thrust. He tried to capture it, and not get it on their clothes, smearing his hand down the side of the mattress. Some other, luckier, airman would get sheets. 

Not letting go, Farrier rocked Collins even closer towards him. The rain had stopped outside, and all he could hear was the rattle of the door in the wind, snoring from across the room, and most importantly, softening breaths against his neck. 

Maybe it’d be sunny tomorrow. Maybe they’d get to sleep somewhere warm. 


End file.
